


He's Drugged the Tea Again

by imjohnlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: :D, :L, :c, ? - Freeform, Anal, Blowjobs, Cute sex tho, Cuties, Experimentation on John :c, Jim is going to be a problem, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Maybe. - Freeform, Micro, Microphilia, Not really., Pocket John, Rimjobs, Sex, Sherlock doesnt care, Sherlock is a complete dickhead, Somewhat, Well - Freeform, What is it called, also, also some jim but that will be later dears, and yes the title is an easter egg, evil stuffs with Jim though, first tme, i dont know, i think thats it, johniarty, maybe? - Freeform, poor baby, rimmies, sex?, sexy sex, some odd sex?, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imjohnlocked/pseuds/imjohnlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes to find himself being at the end of another experiment by Sherlock. What he thought to be a nice, rare, offering from Sherlock turns out to be a complete and utter nightmare as he finds himself standing at a height of 5 inches tall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bee's Don't Have Smiling Faces

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested by Snipersandtea on tumblr :3 "Can you write some pocket!john? Maybe something explicit if youre up to it? ;) " Also the title is a play on a song from the Sherlock Holmes Movies as the original is called "He's killed the dog again."

Of course. He should have known.

He should have known that Sherlock wouldn't have the mind to do such a thing, at least, not this early in the morning. It was rare when Sherlock did something for John, and when he did, it was never, ever, early in the morning. Early in the morning was Sherlock's time. Meaning that no one was to disturb him, not even Mrs. Hudson. And, if one did, they would get a grunt of an answer, at best, or perhaps a hand in their face, pushing them away so that he could walk around the flat, throwing things around, cursing to the skull on the wall, who was the only one allowed to have his attention, it seemed. So then why, why, did John take the tea that was given to him in those golden hours of the morning, when the flat was painted in a liquid yellow from the rising sun before it was swallowed by the clouds. Why, did he smile at the fact that, wow, Sherlock made him tea? Why did he believe that Sherlock had the thought in his mind in those hours to do such a nice thing for him? Because John Watson was always looking for improvement in the detective, and over the years, he had seen such things in Sherlock. Like actually having the human decency to wear real clothes during the day, not just a sheet (Well, that was still being worked on..), like not shooting the wall as much, like not putting opened bottles of blood in the fridge. Because John believed in Sherlock, and now, it seemed to be back firing on him for the millionth time in his life. 

He was sitting in his bed when it happened. When he sipped the another mouthful of the lukewarm tea in the cup with the little buzzing bee's painted on it, one of his favorites, and he could feel something twist in his stomach. He thought that maybe it was just because he had a little bit too much to drink last night on his night out with Lestrade at the bar, or maybe it was the chicken that he had eaten for dinner, perhaps it had gone bad. Or maybe it was because he was nervous, because honestly, he felt like he was unable to focus. Distracted by the hard thumping in his ears, which sounded like when he went too deep down in the ocean during a dive, and his ears would need to pop and squeak to adjust. But there was no give to it, no way to turn back and go up to the surface to fix the thumping, because it kept getting louder and louder. It got to the point where John had to curl up and cover his ears. Like a ghost was shouting into his head, teasing him, mocking him. The noise grew to the front of his mind, where it took over every thought he had at the moment. The thought of the fact that Sherlock knew how he liked his tea, on point, the thought that maybe he should have slept in more, the thought of that girl he made out with last night and it just felt wrong. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth slamming together and rubbing back and forth in a desperate attempt to create a new, refreshing noise in his body that was something other than this pounding in his head. But it was just getting louder, the constant bass in his ears and grew in his mind, so loud that he felt like it would just be better to put a pencil and each ear and just keep pushing them and pushing them until the tips of them broke into his ear drum and released whatever pressure was in them, all that blood that would flow out in the beat of whatever evil song was stuck in his ears, that would just flow through his fingers, onto the floor, soaking his arms in a red release that would keep him sane...

It was then, when he realized that there was a release. A liquid, and it was going down his arms, going down his fingers, tailing the edges of them then dropping off onto the sheets below him. And slowly, with the rush of the liquid from his hands, the beating in his ears stopped, decreasing in volume slowly, before they faded out of existence. When John opened his eyes again. Nothing was the same. He was greeted with something large, white, porcelain in front of him, like a big wall. He reached out, like a lost child who had just seen the light of day after staying up all night with he, himself and him, and touched the wall. It was wet. Why was it wet? Where is he? Blinking again, he brought his hands up to his eyes and rubbed, letting out a small gasp as he smeared whatever liquid was on his face, finding it to be a little sticky, a little tacky. Brown. It was brown. What the hell? He shook his head, and finally, he looked down, and was greeted with a brown reflection of himself. Water? Was he outside? Why was it so warm? He placed his hand into it, and retracted, confused. He then repeated the action, placing his hand into the water, but kept going, going, until he hit the bottom. He expected to feel mud, murky moss, and maybe some stones, but no, instead, he was greeted with a smooth, curved wall.. just like the one he was leaning against. Shaking his head, the blogger turned his attention to the other walls, and it was then when he spotted it.. A small, yellow, painted on bee. The same bee that he loved to see every morning during his cup of tea. The same bee that he filled the tea up to. The same bee that Sherlock always rolled his eyes at for being anatomy incorrect because "bee's don't smile, John". 

So then why was this bee, that used to be so cute, and little, look so terrifying? It was huge! And up this close, John could see how it had chipped over the years, no longer keeping that cute, yellow smile on it's face, instead, it was replaced with porcelain and tea stains, covering up its little face, making it just a disgusting blob of messed up black and yellow. John found himself backing up, found himself looking around, hyperventilating, panicking. John Watson never panics. He stays calm, even in the worst of situations, even when he is facing death, he keeps a stern jaw, and looks down whatever he is facing. There are exceptions though, like when he falls asleep on the wrong side of the bed and wakes up in a cold sweat from a nightmare of war, or..well.. actually that was the only time he really panicked. And now, here he was, awake, able to see, able to touch, and he was panicking. Panicking so much that he didn't seem to hear the tired shifting of movement coming from behind him. Padding of feet that were obviously in slippers too big, where one would just slide around on instead of actually walk. And of course, someone that lazy could only be the only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Lukewarm Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John believes this to all be a silly dream made up in his head, and expects himself to wake up any moment.

The water he is in is lukewarm, but smells sweet, and, when he moves it in, small white swirls follow his movements, encircling his legs, like a tiny white snake that never really seemed to be able to cling to his pajama trousers. His trousers, once a baby blue in color, were now stained a light brown, which when mixed with the blue, created a very murky red color, like mud. They have no design on them, no silly little bee's, no funny looking pictures, nothing, which was quite odd for John, the one who wore the stupidest of jumpers whenever the opening was there. Maybe he thought they were nice looking, maybe he thought they were in style, but the girls that he went out with surely did not. In fact, the only one who really liked them, were Mrs. Hudson, probably because over the years, she has made him so many, he has lost count, and she is always so delighted to see him wearing them. Sherlock, was different though. Instead of snorting out an insult on his silly looking sweaters, or adding a sly comment into a middle of a conversation, he seemed to ignore his flatmate's odd attire in a live and let live attitude. It was a nice change, John always thought to himself, that finally someone didn't pick on anything about him. In fact, he was sure that Sherlock had only called him 'stupid' or 'idiotic' only a couple times in his whole time there, which was really a miracle in itself. 

But now was not the time to think on that, now was the time to see just where he was, understand what was going on. Looking up, John saw the slow, rotating fan on his bedroom ceiling, which every now and then, would let out a small squeak that always annoyed him at night. He watched it go round and round, until he waited for it, and listened to the squeak. But now, it wasn't that, instead now he could hear the clicking of it, the machine forcing itself past something that was stuck in the motor, before letting out a high pitched squeak enough to make John duck and cover his ears. At this position, he could see himself in the murky water and the swirling white liquid, and finally, he reached down, and touched it. Yes, it was still luke warm, and no, there was no muddy bottom..so, it must be safe. He lifted his hand back up, and gently slipped a finger into his mouth. He licked it clean with a thoughtful look on his face, slipping the finger out from his lips with a small 'pop'. Tea. It was tea. Not only just regular tea, but /his/ tea. As in, two cubes of sugar and a dollop of milk, which was currently circling around his leg like a tiny milk-snake. Cocking a brow, he moved to look back at the little bee's on the cup, looking up at the lip of the mug. Surely, this had to have been a nightmare, or, perhaps Sherlock had drugged the tea and he was currently tripping out. He hoped for it to be the first, and not the latter. He threaded through the tea and began to jump for the lip, each time causing small waves when he landed back into the tea without success. 

This was so odd. Usually by now he would be waking up, lucid dreaming was very rare, and when he did dream, it was never something as silly as this. His brain had an odd attention to detail, he thought, as he noticed that everywhere he looked, looked /exactly/ like his normal room. Weren't dreams supposed to be scary? To be different? Well, other than him being impossibly small and stuck in a bloody tea cup, he was expecting like a huge monster to come out and spook him, and hopefully wake him up. He closed his eyes, moving his hands up and flicking his temples, wanting to wake up so that he could just escape from this weird dream. When that didnt work, he went to trying to pinch himself and, yeah! it actually hurt a little. Wasn't that supposed to wake him up? Real, life pain? Why wasn't he? Giving a sigh, John decided to sit in his cup and wait for whatever this dream had decided for him, wanting to know just what else can go amazingly weird in this. He sat, cross legged in the tea, which he would occasionally dip his hand in and drink, because funnily enough, he was yawning. He was tired. You didnt fall asleep in dreams, why, that would be silly, like that movie he saw with Sherlock, Inception was it? He didnt remember. All he remembered was Sherlock deducing how it was impossible to do any of what he was doing, to the point where John decided to just leave the room and leave Sherlock to his mumbling.

Anyway, he sat, in the tea, that was starting to get kind of cold and unpleasant, and he actually began to close his eyes. But as soon as he did, as if on queue, he felt something attach itself to his back collar and start to pull him up. "Thank god." He said out loud to himself as he let out a yawn. It was about time for this weird dream to come to an end. How would it end? Was whatever he was attached to suddenly drop him to the bed, and as soon as he was /just/ about to hit the sheets, he would wake? Or, maybe it was one of those where he was going to be thrown against the wall? Or perhaps he would be faced up with a monster, with large, bloody fangs and dripping jaws, ready to devour his body? Oh, that would be lovely, really. That's all John needed right now. He gave and sigh, and twisted his body a little, hoping that maybe if he just saw the monster, he would wake up instantly. 

So he twisted himself, turning head as far as he could go to try to see, but thankfully, the 'monster' seemed to understand just what he wanted, and turned his hand to face him. It was then when John stopped his struggling and squirming of trying to move, and went limp in the grip, because what he saw was no monster, instead, it was his best friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Now, this was getting strange, where was the catch? Watch, this 'Sherlock' was going to open its mouth to speak, and a punch of flies and bees and god knows what will fly out of his mouth and from down his throat. Or maybe this fake Sherlock would explode, or maybe he would squeeze him to death. This, was very strange. One to be written down and spoken about to his therapist, that for sure. He shook his head, and rubbed his eyes a little, hands still sticky from the tea on them, before he looked back at this Sherlock, who seemed just as smug as the real one. Oh, what a twat. John's robin egg eyes watched as the detective opened his mouth to speak, and he was expecting himself to finally wake up, to be out of this nightmare, back in his bed in his /normal/ size. And he knew that once he was, never again would he drink from that stupid fucking mug. He looked away, but kept his ears open and listening as the man finally spoke.

"Good Morning, John. Nice to know that you landed in your tea. Easy to find."  
Came the voice, which sounded just like Sherlock's to John's ears. But now in this situation, he could hear all the lows in Sherlock's throat, he could hear the tiredness in his voice, the exhaustion in his words. Where was the loud screech of a terrible jump that was to wake him?  
"I'm surprised that you got this small. I was really only thinking maybe a foot smaller."  
At this, John looked up at this 'Sherlock', with wide, but not fearing eyes, more curious, confused, brows knitted together in thought.  
"You're confused, I know. As am I...I didn't think you would fall for the drugged tea again."  
What? Drugged tea? No, oh, this was just silly! This dream was accessing memories and worries from his brain. Yeah, he would totally need to speak to his therapist about this, maybe he could be put on some medication, hopefully. But for now, since this was all just a stupid little dream, John decided to play along, letting out a small snort of a laugh. As John let out that laugh, Sherlock did something that he never, ever did. Which was ask John the question of 'Are you alright?'. Because Sherlock would never do that. Never, ever, he would deduce it right away, he would know if John was alright or not. But then why was he saying it here, in his dream, if he had never said it before? It didn't make sense... None of it made sense. The attention to detail, the taste of the tea that was made just right, the way how realistic everything felt.. This wasnt a dream. This. Was not. A dream. And the only way he could know if that was true was by speaking out to this 'Sherlock'. 

"What the hell is going on? Why am I not waking up?" John asked as he looked over at Sherlock, seeing those green eyes, that, decided to be that color today it seemed. As they changed all the time, sometimes they were blue, sometimes they were green, sometimes they were a mix, but right now, they were green.  
"You are up, John. You drank the tea I drugged, and now you are tiny." Sherlock replied with his baritone voice, as if it was just another simple conversation. As if he was asking John about his blog, or saying some snide comment about how stupid Anderson was today. There was no hint of waving in his voice.  
"What?"  
"You heard me, Don't make me repeat myself, John. It is really unnecessary. But, I see that you are a bit shocked so I will say it again. I drugged your tea. You drank it. And now you're...5 inches tall, maybe 4." Sherlock replied with a thoughtful tone, looking over John like he was some kind of specimen to inspect.  
"I'm..."  
"4 inches, 6 centimeters tall." Sherlock finished with a grin as he moved to sit on John's bed, still keeping his collar clamped between two fingers.  
John let out a small smile and a chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is madness. I've gone insane."  
"You remember when I drugged your tea for the case with the hound, and you didn't believe me until I drilled it into your mind. It would be stupid to repeat the same actions, don't you think? Believe me." Sherlock cut him off with a stern glare, his other hand going into his pocket and taking out a small, empty vile. "This held it. And it was in your tea. You drank i--"

It was then when John finally realized that he was no longer dreaming, that he never was dreaming, that the silly looking bee in the tea cup was actually staring down at him, that the heartbeat in his ears was actually deafening him, that the clicking of the fan was as loud as it really was. He, John Watson, Captain of the Queens army, normally a nice five foot six in height, was now smaller than a barbie doll.  
"What the fuck! Sherlock!? What the fuck?!" He exploded as he cut Sherlock's snide comment off. "What the hell, what the /hell/, is wrong with you!" He shouted as he felt his body begin to shake, mainly from rage, but there a good amount of fear with him. Oh, god. He was tiny. He didnt know how long for, if he was ever going to be his own size again, how was he going to go to work? How was he going to write on his blog? Go on dates? Talk to Mrs. Hudson? How would he even /walk around the bloody flat/ without fear that something might crush him?  
"Calm down, John." Sherlock said as he gently lowered John onto the palm of his hand, seeing that since he was wiggling around so much and fighting, he had started to slip through his pajama shirt, his stomach showing at this point. "I'm sure that everything is fine. I've tested this out before on many subjects, like feeding it to a plant, and giving it to a couple of cats. Now, I just wanted to try it on someone who I could trust." He explained, as if it was completely normal to just shrink your best friend without telling him before hand, without getting consent. Yeah! Totally fine. 

"No! NO! It's not alright! Sherlock, look at me! I'm.. I can't do anything!" John cried out as he kicked and punched the hand under him, acting much like a wild animal that was being caged, trapped, in a body too small for his spirit.  
"Yes you can, John,stop fussing and we can speak about this properly."  
"Well you could have told me before you shrank me you complete tit!"  
"If I did, You wouldnt have let me"  
"Exactly!" John shouted, panting as he looked up at Sherlock, who, oh for fucks sake. He didnt even have the decency to actually wear anything at this time. Why? This just made it even more awkward. At least he was wearing that bloody sheet, and what seemed to be.. -  
"Are those my slippers?"  
"Yes."  
"Why are you wearing them?!"  
"Let's not discuss that, first, lets get you cleaned." Sherlock said as he quickly avoided the topic, getting up and tugging the sheet with him as he shuffled to the bathroom, making sure that John was completely safe in his hand at all times. He made it to the bathroom, and flicked the lights on, which caused John to suddenly let out a small scream and bend over, covering his eyes.  
"Apologies."  
"You apologies for /that/?!"  
"I apologize that your body is incapable of adjusting to light as fast as mine."  
"youre a complete and utter dickhead." John snorted as he sat in the palm of his hand, looking up at the mirror, and finally being able to see himself. 

Here he was. Strong, soldier John Watson. Field medic in the war. Made his way through hell and back to earn his ranking. Who always carried his gun with him to protect the people he loved, who always put others first. Here he was, standing at best, 4 inches, 6 centimeters tall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo pocket!John is really really cute ok~ T3T Don't hate me


	3. Time Warp woooooo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time has passed since John has been a part of Sherlock's experiment. And now he is starting to get a little rowdy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohmygod! Im alive? Im alive. Everyone, Im alive. (but seriously, hell of a summer for me.. Expect monthly updates)

It had been three months since the incident with the tea. Three months since John had been stuck at such a small size. And in that time, he really did hate it just as much as the day it first happened. Though, things had gotten easier now. Mrs. Hudson had found out, but instead of freaking out and yelling and screaming, she instead got John his own little wardrobe of doll like clothing, and clothing she herself knitted for him, bless her heart. And he had gotten his own tiny dishes and cups to eat and drink from, though John would still yell at Sherlock for a full, regular size cup of tea, and then leave more than half of it out of spite for the detective who, seemed to be in no fucking rush to get John a cure so he would be back to normal. And it was always impossible to ever to Sherlock attention unless the detective wanted to pay attention to John. Most of the time, he was too busy with a case, and would just wave a hand at John in dismissal. Sometimes, he would forget about John’s situation entirely, asking John to toss him a pen, or his laptop, or phone, to which John would just stand there in the middle of the floor and look up at him with a disapproving look. He would also get irritated at John for leaving his belongings all over the floor, even though John had no way to put this stuff away. It took him easily three hours to climb up onto his bed at night, let alone put something in a damn drawer..Things were not looking good for the two best friends, it seemed. And that cure was really at the back of Sherlock’s mind.

Another thing that had changed, that probably effected John the most out of this whole situation was the fact that he could no longer go with Sherlock to his cases. Instead, he was confided to 221b, with almost nothing to do. Even using the internet on his laptop was a chore, running around to press on a letter, and scrolling was just another terrible thing. He had begged and pleaded Sherlock to be able to go, but Sherlock willed it ‘too risky’. If John was discovered, he would probably get questioned, and then put into an asylum for hurting his friend. It seemed that none of John’s worries were in Sherlock’s head, but only his own, selfish thoughts. Nothing more. And this, John knew. Sherlock had been getting more and more dismissive of his pleads. Things like food, water, and fresh clothes were now just dismissed with a wave of a hand and a small grunt of “Busy.” leaving the small doctor to have to deal with it all by himself. And most of the time, his attempts failed, leaving him hungry for that day, or stuck in three day old clothes, or in no clothes at all. Well..Enough, was enough.. Sherlock had just left to go to a ‘Big case, John, a big case” as he put it, ignoring how the tiny blogger didn't even respond to him. Half of the time, John knew that Sherlock probably couldn't even hear him, and he wasn't sure if the detective even cared or not. With a long sigh, John watched Sherlock leave, listening, and feeling, the slamming of the door down below. And now he was alone, for god knows how long of a time, in a huge flat, with nothing to do..

And then, he spotted the violin.

It always looked so enjoyable when Sherlock played it. The way his fingers just ran across the strings at just the right amount of time, the bow perfectly cutting the notes sharply, or extending them into a soft melody..and when he broke his bow, which he often did from tightening it too much in stress, he would pluck the strings instead...something that looked so easy, that even John could do it.. The small blogger looked up at his prize, Sherlock’s violin, which was laying down on the coffee table, sheets of music splayed about, like organs coming out of a murdered body, each piece unique and crafted expertly. Thankfully, the violin wasnt up on the kitchen counter, or somewhere that John knew he wouldn't be able to reach. He had climbed the coffee table many a times, and scaled down it as well. That was all thanks to Sherlock sitting there for hours at a time, and the only way to get his attention would be to literally wave a hand infront of his face. To which he would probably see, proceed to close his laptop (Nearly squishing John in the process), and then leave, to which John had to follow. This, was a piece of cake. The doctor quickly began to scale up the leg of the coffee table, which was ridged, making it easy for him to climb up it like it was just one big ladder. All this climbing had helped him get his soldier like body back again, which was probably the only good thing about being this size. Once he was up and on the coffee table, John brushed himself off, and walked over to the violin, climbing ontop of it and gazing at the beauty of the strings and the beautiful mahogany wood it was crafted with. Slowly, John began to climb towards the neck of the instrument, and then step on the strings. Sherlock plucked the strings all the time… Maybe if he could just...Jump a little.. And John did, jumping on the thinnest string, and to his happiness, it made a high pitched musical note. Grinning, John began to shift from foot to foot on the strings. To the E string, to A, to D, and G, and then back to A, and then D, and soon, he was making up his own little song. John had forgotten the last time he had had fun like this as he bounced along, soon humming along to his song as he closed his eyes. Everything had been going perfectly as he played his song, but John didn't realize was that his footsteps, and pressure of constantly going back and forth, was causing the violin to slowly start to shift. It wobbled, back and forth, inching closer and closer to the edge..until suddenly, John felt himself drop.


	4. Music Comes First.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home, and finds the remains of his beloved violin.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion as John fell. First, the bottom of the violin began to dive, causing the tiny doctor to slide down on the strings, no doubt cutting his jumper, and the backs of his arms and legs, as well as his fingers, as he tried to desperately clutch to the strings in hopes of stopping himself. But the strings were so slippery and sharp, that it did almost nothing to cease his descent. And then, there was a darkness that surrounded him, and he landed harshly on splintered wood, and what followed that was a deafening crack, a splitter, and a shattering noise as well as the screaming of the strings snapping to the top of the violin, the bridge collapsing upon itself, and the neck detaching. Broken. Beyond repair. Busted up. 30 years of having the same instrument, the one that Sherlock loved more than anything in the world, more than murders and dead bodies and science itself, was now in pieces, all because of one, stupid mistake. John sat at the bottom of the violin, inside of the once beautiful instrument, looking up at the sky through the scrolls of the wood, able to see the dust that had flown up from being broken and shattered and shaken, and he coughed a few times, wiping his hand in the air to try to clear it. John himself was in quite bad shape as well, with his arms bleeding, as well as the back of his calves, and his fingers which were torn and ripped at the knuckle, but there was nothing broken, thankfully.. Perhaps he had a concussion, and, when he stood up, he determined that to be true. Shaking his head, and trying his best to get his vision back to normal, as right now, every time he blinked, he could see small black dots in his vision, as well as everything was blurry. He was in bad shape, but certainly would survive..all he had to do was get out of this violin.

A jump, and a grunt, proved that to be quite difficult.. Dammit! Why wouldn't have Sherlock just shrunk him down to 6 inches? Why four? He couldn’t reach the violin, it was impossible no matter how much he jumped, how much he tried, there was no possible way for him to get out. Leaving him with the fate of just sitting there, bleeding over Sherlock’s broken and destroyed violin. It was then when it hit John.

He had completely destroyed the only thing that calmed Sherlock down. The only thing that caused the detective to de-stress after a long day of dealing with idiots and with John annoying him, the only thing that helped him go to sleep. And John Watson had been a selfish idiot, and destroyed it, and he had to sit there and think about what he did. He knew that he wouldn't be able to get out of the violin without Sherlock’s help, for Mrs. Hudson was out with friends today, having a nice tea date. 

The doctor stared with blue, tired eyes out the opening of the violin, watching the dust rise to the ceiling, floating about, swirling and then dispersing again. His bleeding body having since healed up, so he wasnt losing any more blood. And thankfully, he didn't pass out from the massive headache and concussion that he had obtained. Though in the end, he wished he had when the sound of the door to their apartment creaked open, and the ever so annoyed sigh announced Sherlock’s arrival. There was a dropping of a bag, no doubt another experiment or another body part for Sherlock to play with that had just been placed on the table in the kitchen, and John internally cringed, knowing that he ate his bloody dinner there. There was the clattering of test tubes being lined up, then the clinging of an empty tea cup being filled. A tired yawn and another sigh followed as Sherlock no doubt neared the living room, and when he did, it was announced with a shattering of a very full cup of tea.

 

There was a moment of complete silence, and for that time, John held his breath, before the inevitable happened, and the violin was picked up by the neck, causing the back of the violin to tip down, sending John down on a slide full of splinters as he couldnt help but let out a painful shout. His plan had been to try to remain silent and hopefully hide away from Sherlock, to hope that maybe the man would dismiss that the violin would just..fall on it’s own. But the scream gave him away as the violin was ever so violently tilted upside down, and John was dumped into a thankfully, soft hand. He was covered in blood, looking up at Sherlock, who didn't even give John a glance, Just looking at his violin with the most...empty eyes, he had ever seen. Even more empty than the time John wrote about how irritating Sherlock was being on his blog, or the time that he had accidentally thrown out a three year experiment on rotting thumbs that had been sitting in the fridge, no. This was serious. Sherlock didn't cast a single look to John, his mouth open a little as he looked at the broken violin, the only thing that had stayed by his side through all the hell of his teenage years, his twenties, and now thirties. And it was gone. When he did speak, it was with such a cold demeanor that John felt his hair on the back of his neck stand up. The words of “You Did this.” Striking him down as he swallowed a bulge in his throat he hadnt known he was choking on. He didn't think it was possible, but at that moment, John never felt smaller. 

The next action had happened so fast, that John really had no time to explain himself. But he found himself in the kitchen, in the hand of a very, very angry detective. He was forced under the water of a running tap, shaken dry, and then placed onto the counter. It was weird now, as for when John stood up and tried to make his way over to Sherlock, mouth open and sorry, he found himself running head first into something harsh, something he couldnt see. Confused and still dizzy from the first fall, John tried again, his head and nose pressing against the invisible wall, smooshing his face. Glass. Turning, John pressed his hands to the walls around him, Glass..Glass. Sherlock had put him in a jar. “..Sh-Sherlock!” John cried out as he turned, seeing the last of the detective vanish out the kitchen door, the light being flicked off, swallowing John into darkness, with only the small light of the clock by the microwave being his guide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you! Look at the tags, LOOK AT EM, see that? Says Sherlock's a dick. :xxxx


End file.
